My own brain conspires against me

I took two days off the novel to finish "Catch", in my ongoing effort to not stress myself into another screaming breakdown with writing. And two days is all well and good--I can catch up to that in a few days, if I am an industrious piggy.*

But then last night, as I was going to bed, huge chunks of another story fell into my head. And there still here today. And it's hard to concentrate on the novel when Miss Isyllt Sue is too busy painting her toenails to pay attention to the evile death-fog and zombies (which I added just for her--ungrateful wretch), and Memory is chattering in my ear about anything and everything.

Memory hasn't given me a title, though, and that would be nice.

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* This is greygirlbeast's fault. There are certain phrases that I am far too susceptible to, and one of them is "That'll do pig, that'll do." Seriously, I giggle every time I hear it.

The suck, it burns.

Today is a dark day in slushland.

So far we have one story whose title is a pun, one by a writer whose goth license is not in order, another about death metal--which I guess needs a license too, though I don't know where you apply for one--and then...

It's a grubby apartment. Oh, the character is a writer. He's a drunk chain-smoking writer. Oh look, chunks of his "manuscript", and the Gary Stu protag. Oh noes! He's hallucinating! It's like the story was coming to life! Oh noes! And then it ends, having never found anything sharp enough to be like a point.

But I did read to the end, so it was more interesting than most of the rest.

Ia, Ia, BPAL fhtagn!

My newest batch of imps came in today, so I resurrect the BPAL report.

( Al-Azif )

( R'lyeh )

( Y'ha-nthlei )

Adventures in misheard lyrics

Dear brain:

That line in "Sleep Now in the Fire" is not "the noose and the waitress, the fields overseer". As far as I know, Zack has nothing against waitresses. Unlike Tori Amos.

Loff,
Me

In other news, bergamot is so much better in perfume than in tea.